Sweet Unrest
by EnlightenedSkye
Summary: George and Emily, when it all ends. [Common Life AU, companion piece to With Each Passing Day. Gemily, futurefic. Triggers for death. Complete]


A/N: I've finally done it now. This occurrence was mentioned in _With Each Passing Day_ , and for some reason I couldn't let it alone. Working as a nursing assistant for two years, I saw the sadness of death firsthand. And while my job demanded I remained impartial, there was not a patient who left this earth under my care that I did not weep for. I researched the history of the treatment of breast cancer at length. While the practice of the mastectomy was pioneered in the 1880s, methods of treatment as we know them today weren't actually common until the 1950s when we began to have a better understanding of DNA.

On a complete off-handed note, I've read spoilers for _Raised on Robbery_ but have yet to see the episode. File that under German expatriate living in America problems! This officially renders my humble little AU series impossible to become canon, but I will continue to write it because myself and my readers like it so much. I'd still like to see the episode, some way, some how. Darned geographic restrictions, Roland looks absolutely precious.

Title nicked from a song by Apparat that I listened to about a dozen times while writing the ending. Sorry for the tense changes, but I feel it's necessary to maintain coherence. Common Life AU, complete as published. Now that I've managed to make myself sad, if you will excuse me, I'll be off writing some gratuitous fluff.

 **Sweet Unrest**

"I don't want to fall asleep," Emily says all of a sudden, her hand grappling for his in the dim light of their bedroom.

George rolls over from where he has been gazing out the window. Clouds are beginning to gather in lieu of a summer storm; their eerie green tinge can be detected by the electric lamplight along their street. There was tension everywhere he turned, outside and inside. Soundlessly he seizes her hand and brings it to his chest, where his heartbeat serves as a consistent reminder that they are alive, _yes_ , they are alive. And because at that point neither of them has hope this will hold true, he assures, "Don't worry, my love."

She coughs and settles down into her pillow, the ghost of a smile on her lips. From downstairs, they can hear the screen door being beaten by the wind. "Penny for your thoughts."

As he drags his lips across her cracked knuckles, he replies softly, "There are no words."

 _How could there be?_ After many years spent in wedded bliss, his marriage was about to end. Neither of them had said it outright, but somehow they both knew that their last moments together were nearing ever closer on the horizon. He'd been first to wake up that morning; as he prepared to stand, George was seized with such an irreparable sense of panic that he immediately laid down once again. Beside him, his wife shifted in her tumultuous sleep. The end was closer now more than ever.

Over the past year, it has been his distinct displeasure to see the mother of his children wither in the advanced stages of an illness that is not well understood. At first it manifests itself as a persistent cough and throbbing pain in the rib cage that she doses liberally with the traditional methods. Seemingly overnight, she begins to experience radiating pain from her chest out to her fingertips. One evening in the midst of making love, George looks down at the woman writhing beneath him and it occurs to him that she looks so frail that she might snap in half. There are noticeable pits in the apples of her cheeks, and her hipbones jut out. Even when they had first met, Emily had never been so thin.

Of course she assures him that everything is fine. She's a doctor, after all, and would know if her case was dire enough to seek medical attention. But a few weeks later he catches her nude in the washroom after a bath, turning this way and that before the mirror. She's discovered a misshapen lump in her left breast, and something must be done.

They seek the expertise of a woman's health specialist, who rules out hysteria as a cause on the grounds that a woman who has borne five daughters couldn't be experiencing such a thing. The other possibility is repression, which George negates with a wry grin, saying there is _no way_ his wife was sexually repressed. The physical restriction from her corset is discussed, as well as the presence of curdled milk left in the ducts of the breast. Emily nods her head along with all of this, even though she's doubtful. What isn't questioned is the decision to amputate the affected area, the underlying muscle, and some structures called the _lymph nodes_. He won't pretend to understand it, but his wife's determination to keep the scourge from spreading is fearsome enough to keep his mouth shut.

As the appointed day approaches, seemingly everyone they know is holding their breath. Emily works the morgue up until the weekend before the procedure, even though her hands shake and she's having difficulty catching her breath. The morning of, George marches confidently into the surgical ward uptown and is nearly floored at the sight of his eldest daughter, Violet, standing before the operating room. Even as her face is nearly obscured with a sterile mask, he can sense her anguish. It is then that something the young physician has said jumped out of his memory. Due to lack of staff during the holiday season, her department would be split up and loaned to other locations. And even though she never said so, he knows that this will be her first and last time in the operating room.

Before the bandages even come off, there is hope that Emily will recover. Her paper thin skin demonstrates a little color, and she sleeps through the night. Her husband would know, for he drags an armchair from the doctor's lounge all the way up the stairs and into her room, where he sleeps with his head next to hers. Their daughters and grandchildren come to visit. Holly has just given birth to a daughter, one that is christened Emily Grace Higgins. Husband Seth marvels how convenient it is that his mother-in-law's first and maiden names are both monikers in their own right; she wordlessly taken the bundle into her arms, breathing in the scent of new life.

She teases him on the matter when there's strength enough to speak, but he only shakes his head and smiles. With the rate they're gaining grandchildren, he'll have six namesakes by the time he's gone.

More than a month passes and her condition does not improve. Black spots begin to develop on her hands and torso; there is fear that the foul humors have spread to her liver and lungs. No sooner have the physicians diagnosed her terminal does Emily develop the inability to keep anything down. Even seltzer water sets her stomach on end. The day after his wife returns home for the last time, George leaves the house under the control of their daughters Sage and Holly, marches down to the station house, and hands in his resignation. He intends to see this out to the end.

Control of the morgue is formally passed down to Rebecca; one day in the early spring, he wheels Emily downtown in her rolling chair for what is deemed the _changing of the guard_. She sits at her desk for the final time swathed in a mound of blankets, dictating the location of this and that, and how she expects the vials of chemicals to be labelled. It's a formality, for the women have worked alongside each other for over a decade and are well versed in each other's habits. The way Emily discusses it, it's as if she's about to go off on an extended holiday.

The next few months at home are too quiet. Quickly, a routine is established: every morning, George would carry his patient down the stairs bridal style, for her legs had withered and shrunken to the size of some people's arms. He'd mix a concoction of sugar water that she'd nurse, biding her time until her stomach ceased to churn. Snuggling up to one another on the sofa, Emily would listen as he read to her the newspaper or a paperback novel. Daily radio programs were consumed religiously, and when the weather was nice, they'd retire to the porch swing to hear the birds chirp and the people along the street pass by.

One night as they lay dozing before the fireplace-nowadays, she was nearly _always_ freezing-Emily prompted, "I want you to write this down. There's a little girl, and she's in a strange land. She sleeps under the stars, waiting for the word of the father to be passed down to her from heaven. And every morning, she goes on an adventure."

George scribbled all of this down on a fresh sheet of notebook paper. It seemed that the roles had reversed, for it used to be that whenever he had a burst of inspiration, Emily would take diction as fast as his mind could work away. With the other hand, he stroked the side of her face from temple to chin. To his satisfaction, she leaned into his touch, lips pressed together in an unbidden smile. Slightly amused, he asked, "And what is this girl's name?"

"Why, Aster, of course," Emily pronounced the name of their final daughter, who had passed away from diphtheria more than a decade ago, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Sighing, he settled down against her, the pencil and paper set aside. "Does she visit you?"

Emily studied the veins in her hands, slowly clenching and unclenching her fist. Some days even the most simple of movements evaded her as the cancer consumed her body from the inside out. Even the light had diminished from her once bright eyes, and she spent innumerable hours staring out into seemingly nothing. He wished he could see what she did. "Every day, sometimes twice."

He clicked his tongue. "How is she, sweetheart?"

Her smile broadened and she snuggled into his embrace, so much so he could feel the protrusion of her shoulder blades. "Just fine. She's got plenty of friends, and all the toys a child could want. Her grandparents are there. But she's lonely; my little girl needs me."

George considered saying that he and their surviving daughters needed her just as much, but held his tongue. That night, he lay awake with his eyes trained on the ceiling, until he felt his wife struggling to sit up in bed.

The lamp came on. According to the clock on the wall at their bedside, it was a little after four in the morning. The hairs on the back of his neck were standing on end, especially as Emily seized his arm and pointed to a vacant corner in their bedroom. She looked enraptured by whatever it was she saw, so utterly enthralled, that he just had to buy into it. "Tell her that I love her," he mumbled. "And I miss her more than anything else."

"She knows, George," she replied, and settled back down in bed without another word.

About a week after the incident, the Crabtrees hosted their final dinner party before the time allotted to the patient ran out. It was a struggle to make do with their dwindling savings, but there was no question that it must be done. After the meal, the sum of them managed to squeeze into the sitting room, with Rose standing guard at the threshold. Their second daughter looked on as her sisters' children played with her own, affecting what was known in military circles as a _thousand yard stare_. Julia Ogden was a bit more enthusiastic, cozying up to her best friend and asking if she remembered the time they were tossed in jail for disturbing the peace during one of their suffragette demonstrations. Emily responded with a soft laugh and a _yes, indeed_ before sneaking a sip of wine when her husband's back was turned. It seemed that there were some things that never changed.

"I simply don't understand how none of it could have worked," George groused later in the evening, as he stood with William and Henry on the porch. "Even opium and salves. Nothing even touched the sickness."

His best friend's answer was there was simply no way of knowing, while his mentor offered some well-intentioned platitudes about asking the heavenly father to show him the way. Everything happened for a reason, but at the moment he was having a hard time putting his faith in that.

In the present day, his wife is desperate to hold his attention. Her hands shake as they explore his chest, and she says, "If there are no words, allow me to fill them in. You know I'll wait for you. I don't know what else you want me to say."

"Don't say anything, Emily," he encourages even though his throat is growing tight, "stay here with me."

All this time, she stares directly into his eyes, her chin not so much as quivering. The only time he's seen her cry over the past year was when she'd received her initial diagnosis, and even then it had only been for a few moments. As always, he envies her strength. He envies her ability to stay calm in the face of death.

"I wish I could, George," she murmurs, and is suddenly wracked by a fit of coughs.

He holds her until she is done, and then brings her even closer. "You are not afraid?" He asks doubtfully, not wanting to admit that he, himself, is petrified.

"Of course not," Emily answers sincerely. Her teeth begin to chatter irreverent of the fact that it is quite warm inside their bedroom.

Sighing, he traces the curvature of her spine. "I don't know how I'll manage without you."

"But you will. I love you," she concludes, and it's all she can do to stammer out the words.

His heart rate picks up in that instant, and George is kissing her brow, desperate to get the words out: "And I love you, just in case you've forgotten in the last ten minutes since I've said it."

Heaven almighty, he expects her to laugh. Any facsimile of the boisterous cackle she once possessed would have worked. But instead Emily's features soften, and she is looking not at him, but through him.

Hands stray to her wrist, where her pulse is weaker than ever. He wants to call for help, but nothing in the universe would cause him to stray from her side. Let anyone find them in this state. It is only after her grip on his arms weakens that George knows it is over.

Emily is suffering tremendous pain no longer. She is safe, in a better place. All those typical aphorisms are racing through his mind. And George should believe them.

As he struggles to sit up, he finds himself collapsing on top of her. In his mind's eye, he can already feel his wife becoming cold. At last, he breaks down, weeping for her life and for his. There is a rumbling of thunder in the distance.

All of a sudden, an inexplicable warmth overtakes him, and he knows he is not alone.

 **The End**


End file.
